


One for Sorrow

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Demons, Faustian Bargain, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:36:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/644150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a moment, Arthur believes that he has merely found himself a loyal servant upon whom he could depend for everything.<br/>The truth is much worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for Sorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially inspired by the manga 'Black Butler'. I've tried to re-interpret the relationship between Ciel and Sebastian to fit Arthur and Merlin.  
> Hopefully I can make a decent job of it.  
> Enjoy!

Camelot.

Home.

The horse knew its way into the Capital, Arthur could be allow himself to be absorbed back into its now achingly familiar strong stone walls. Sunset soothes the clip-clop of the animal, the lavender-crisp air masked over the stupendous faces around him. Morgana would be waiting for him, as would his uncle Agravaine. A warm bed; with covers to pull up to his neck if he so liked. A fire to sing crackles of decaying wood. Food of varying colours and aromas to restore him.

The courtyard was behind him now, they were at the main entrance to the castle.  
“ _Careful now, my Lord_ ”  
Strong hands supported his back and he came off the horse in a single motion. The ground jolted through his feet, but it was fine. Of course everyone would drop whatever they held to catch their Prince, but he wasn’t to be the Prince for much longer. He’d have to take each step and make it firm.

The guards bowed as he walked into his home. After the longest seven months he had made it. His feet took him to the places his heart needed to see. First was the armoury where as a child he oft hid from Morgana during their games. The crossbows mounted upon the walls were no longer relics beyond his capabilities; now he was able to take them down as he pleased and his hands did so. His hands reached out and chose an old one. He remembered Leon saying that it was half a century old. The crack on the end of the stock, and the suspiciously dark colouring inside the wound, this one was his Father’s.

Better put it back.

Better find Morgana before she tears down the Castle.

And the Beast is watching him. Innocent of course, his eyes are a sweet lake of complete and total trustworthiness. Innocent are his lips, pink and seemingly used to only sing the hymns of a higher power. “What” the Prince barks. Less of a bark and more of a whimper bloated by tired and unnecessary arrogance. The beast is curious; it doesn’t understand the aching sympathies to the past that humans bear. But it feigns servitude and obedience nonetheless; no-one can really know what it lives for.  
“ _Nothing, my lord_ ” it responds, voice clean of impurity “ _Are you tired? Would you like me to fetch you something to eat?_ ”  
‘It’s mocking me’ Arthur thinks ‘It thinks I’m stupid’. How could it possibly know the terrain and functions of his home? Enough to ask if there was something he wanted to eat? Pink lips crack into a crooked curve and the Prince realises that he has been squinting in his thought. There wasn’t any use into trying to figure out this thing. He already knew what it was, and what it wanted.  
“ _I am old, young Master_ ” its words bury and scramble into his mind, and he knows it to be true “ _appearances can be deceiving_ ”.  
It bows to him, and lowly. For a moment, Arthur believes that he has merely found himself a loyal servant upon whom he could depend for everything. The truth is worse.

The Physician’s chambers, the Throne Room, the Battlements. They would have to wait until tomorrow. No-one would rush him back to his old life, not when he could barely believe that he was really here.

A waterfall of hot water crashes into the wooden tub, he leans on the bedpost and the Beast swoops and froths up bubbles with those skeleton fingers of his. He is stripped and his clothes thrown onto the fireplace. A flash of red in the eyes of his companion and a fire tears into his old garments like a ravenous wolf. His body is scrubbed, and scrubbed again of the filth and dirt crusted onto him. It is night-time when he wants to sleep, but the beast is not satisfied. Again, another bath and Arthur is raw all over; red all over save patches of white.  
The beast tends to the-  
It tends to the brand upon his back with a cool, damp cloth and tells the Prince of reassurances that it will heal.

Old clothes are found in his beautiful mahogany wardrobe.

Moths have made their supper from the red tunic he wore most days. Red sings through its gaze and the dust drops to the floor in a sudden fell. Arthur has the mind to refuse to wear such a thing, but once it is brought over it smells of perfume and the holes are gone. He didn’t see it change, and yet here it is. His arms are put through the sleeves, his legs through breeches.  
The Prince stares at the still-burning fire. It must be hungry, but it burns and dances in the air where logs ought to be. He is hungry too, but the demon holds his feet and lifts them softly up onto the mattress.

He’s really home. He really did make it.

“ _Is there anything else, my Lord?_ ”  
The blanket smells like muggy air on a warm, but not hot, summer’s meadow. The air that is filled with all manner of insects and pollen and beautiful warmth, the scent of the air is from the moment you intend to spend with your beloved in paradise. The pillow is a cloud to carry away bad thoughts, and to hide them behind a fluffy, white wall.  
“No”  
It bows. It turns around and closes the door behind it.

The Beast will not sleep. It will of course inquire as to a personal chamber or cupboard which it may claim as its own, but it will not sleep. It will taste his food and check his wine, but no nourishment or pleasure will be gained. It will murder, it will torture, it will rip apart. It will do as he commands, and this is what carries the Prince into the realm of sleep.

-

His throat screeched. No sound came out, only the taste of dry blood filled his mouth.  
Arthur knew he had been underground, he couldn’t tell for how long. Arms and hands had been shackled above him as he sat helpless on the soggy earth. Bars before him. A makeshift cell, of which there were many others occupying some sort of underground cavern. At the other side, a curved tunnel through which Arthur had been planning to escape with torches providing the only light. Until now.

Earth had collapsed in, a burning light had dropped onto him.  
A face, a boy’s face frozen in something like disbelief and yet even more so, belief.  
“ _Aetynan_ ” Yellow eyes chorused.  
Arthur knew this word and this tongue to be the work of evil and temptation. But his arms dropped, he looked up into what must have been the face of a god.  
After that there was marching and drums bellowing. Coming closer. Shadows distorting and dancing from the tunnel through which he had been dragged. His heart was going to burst and save him from whatever tortures they had planned. Better to close his eyes now than open them to a body he might not recognise as his own.

He was on his back.  
On grass.  
On green grass.  
On green grass still wet from the early morning mildew. Cold sharp air scraped the dead atmosphere from within his weakened lungs and the sky was blinding grey-purple of the flower of the morning. His eyes saw the sorcerer who freed him.

He was being pulled up and dragged into some trees. His feet were being knocked and scraped but he didn’t care. He wanted to cry. He wanted to be sick. The trees were passing in a blur.

They had stopped. The boy had got a fire going.

“ _I’m not going to hurt you, I wouldn’t dare_ ”  
He was gently pulling off the tattered remnants of what had been Arthur’s boots, and was inspecting the damage done. The Prince didn’t remember speaking, but the boy gave his answer.  
“ _Merlin_ ”  
Merlin.  
Merlin was the name for a saviour.  
As much as he wanted to cling to an easy excuse for revenge and resentment, this thing had used magic to save his life. His Father must have been wrong about something. Or maybe not, maybe this boy was using him too. Just like those devils.  
Magic defiled purity, and was the enemy of clarity.  
The Old Religion was a mask made from promises of safety to aid those at mercy of the world’s unknown forces; a mask only sculpted to be worn by the face and tongues of sadists and liars alike.  
Those people had done what they wanted to his father. They had forced him to consume unholy substances, beaten him, poisoned him with snakes and all the time Arthur was powerless. They had bound him so that he could only scream when his father cried.  
Then one day or night they had come all in black; some singing, some dancing, some beating drums like some perverse marching band.

Uther Pendragon was dragged from his cell and his screams writhed and choked upon themselves too abruptly for Arthur to bear.

Here this thing was, cleaning his cut-up feet. Massaging stinking oils into the red, swollen cracks. Wrapping bandages around the weeping skin.  
“ _I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner_ ” he whispered “ _All this time I was too scared to face what you’d think of me-_ ”  
“-what are you talking about?” It was all Arthur could muster.  
The saviours’s eyes were a dull blue, pretending to play with a more human shade to wear. The pain worn by his furrowed brows wasn’t trickery though. Arthur had seen enough to know that.  
“ _I swear I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe_ ”

And there was the oath that had sealed the young Pendragon’s fate.  
“ _I promise_ ”


End file.
